To my dearest Delia,

I'm sorry if this is hard to read. I am on the train on my way to see you and no matter how I try I can't keep my hands from shaking. In just a few hours time I will get to see you and have you truly see me in return. I can't wait to have something new to replace the memory of sitting beside you while you looked on in bemused incomprehension, as though I were a total stranger. Oh Delia. I missed you so much. I'm not sure I will ever find words big enough to say how much (but I think you will know it anyway).

But all that is almost over. I am sitting here in my brand new dress (a sleeveless, colourfully spotty number which is really more suited to summer but that I couldn't resist because it reminded me of you. I don't suppose you will even notice what I'm wearing today of all days, but it made me happy to put it on, as though you had been there to pick it out with me), gazing out of the window as the city slowly gives way to fields and trees and every rattle and bump of the train brings me closer to you. I feel almost as though I need to pinch myself to check that I am not simply in the midst of some glorious dream. Things have happened so fast since I got your last letter that I am almost in a daze; I hardly know where to begin. I know I don't really need to write anymore, but it has been my only means of talking to you for so long that now something so momentous is happening I feel driven to write to you about it.
One last letter.

It has become a habit to collect the post myself on days when I am expecting your letter (not really a necessary one, but I find I like the little ritual of gathering up the mail from the mat and riffling through to find my name. Alone in the hall there is no need to carefully mask the little thrill of joy I feel when I spot the envelope with your familiar handwriting on the front), but since I had just received one and had not even started writing my reply yet, I had no thought of there being anything for me that day. I wouldn't have paid any attention at all when Sister Monica Joan brought in the stack of envelopes from the hall had she not been in one of her more expansive moods (believe me, they are not easy to ignore!). She paused beside Barbara to pass her a post card as if she were handing over a lost chapter of the bible itself and not a rather washed out picture of a boating lake in some formal garden. She clasped Barbara's hand (narrowly avoiding sloshing hot tea from the cup it was holding over both of them) and exclaimed effusively 'my dear! See what has come? The grace of God is great and miracles abound. All is well with our loved ones and they remember us in their kind words. Rejoice at this heaven sent day!'
I asked Barbara later if there really had been anything momentous in the postcard, but she said there wasn't a thing, unless the fact that her aunt was finding Norwich 'very pleasant for the time of year' and said she hoped to visit London in the spring counted as news worthy of rejoicing.
In contrast, Sister Monica Joan passed me your letter (a letter that truly was worthy of such a dramatic statement) without any comment at all. Instead, as I turned to take it from her, she reached across me and liberated half a fried tomato from my plate before she continued on around the table, sucking at the tomato noisily (but with an expression of such saintly virtue on her face that it felt almost impossible to accuse her of the theft). It hardly mattered anyway because the instant I saw your handwriting all thoughts of breakfast left me. I truly believe it took more self control not to run out of the room and read whatever had made you write this extra correspondence at once than it had done to wait the first time I received a letter after the accident.

But I did wait, of course. I tucked the letter away as casually as I could manage, and then I sat through a whole, agonizing fourteen minutes of forcing down what had up to then been an extremely appealing breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast and (until it was purloined) fried tomato. Only when my plate was clean and set to dry on the draining board did I finally excuse myself to 'use the bathroom' ahead of morning rounds. I knew reading the letter when I had barely five minutes to myself was risky, but after all it was written in your own hand not your mother's, so nothing too terrible could have happened.
And of course nothing had. I had to reread the whole thing twice before I could begin to take it in. It seemed at first almost too wonderful to be believed, but it's really true! You really do remember me, and more than that, you still feel for me as I do for you!

Oh my darling, of course I remember Brighton! It was one of those truly happy days that I treasure the recollection of. From time to time, when I need cheering up, I take down that memory from its storage shelf in my mind and allow its sunshine and laughter to warm me again as it did then.
You made it sound almost as though I planned the whole thing in the 'House of Mysteries' but in all honesty I probably wouldn't have dared to keep hold of your hand for more than an extra heartbeat after I pulled you into that tent if it wasn't for your own, unthinking boldness. In the moment our palms touched you threaded your fingers through mine as naturally as if we had been holding hands for years and all of a sudden I wasn't simply guiding our direction anymore, I was actually holding you. After that I couldn't bring myself to be the one to let go, and it seemed you couldn't either. So we didn't. For all the complexity I had spun around the issue in my mind, when it came to it, it was as simple as that.

I never did admit this (even in later days when we eventually talked about the feelings that were blossoming between us), but I came so close to kissing you as we stood together in the artificial twilight of that marquee. You looked so beautiful - cheeks flushed with laughter, eyes alight with mischievous fun and your hand miraculously gripping mine with no apparent desire to let go, that I actually took an involuntary step towards you. It may seem a cliché, but my heart was pounding so hard I half expected you to notice and comment on it. I was so sure that this was the moment I would do something utterly reckless – dangerous in the extreme but so, so beautiful and I didn't feel afraid, I felt excited. In that instant I knew you wouldn't be horrified or push me away. If I kissed you, you would kiss me back.

Do you know what stopped me, in the end? What made me simply reach out instead and brush away a tendril of cobweb that had transferred from the tent flap to your shoulder, as if that had been my intention all along?
Our lipstick didn't match. That was all. Not a sense of propriety, or shyness, or even fear of rejection. Merely a realization that if I pressed my ruby red lips to your rose petal pink ones it would leave a visible smudge of colour and even in that glorious, giddy moment I couldn't forget that our time alone in the tent was only a temporary reprieve from the real world.

The rest of the day was wonderful fun, but only of the sort that two good friends might have together on a day out in Brighton. I wondered whether the moment had passed forever now, whether I had missed my chance to kiss you once and for all, or if the opportunity might come again (and if it did, whether I would still feel so sure that it was what you wanted too).
Then on the train home you nestled close against me, as though I (and not any place, be it a fairground tent or an impenetrable stone fortress) was your safe haven from the world, and I got to feel for the first time what it would be like to belong to someone in a way I hadn't believed would ever be possible for me. I felt such a rush of tenderness towards you when you snuggled into me and reached for my hand on the seat, and I knew then that the moment in the marquee was just the first of many. After that I couldn't resist pressing the unspent kiss that had been burning my lips throughout the day against your hair, like a secret promise.

I was so wrapped up in this memory as I poured over and over your words that I quite forgot about rounds. I was still sitting perched on the edge of the bath with the letter in my hands when Trixie came knocking.
'I say Patsy, is everything alright? Sister Evangelina is getting a bit twitchy over your continued absence… listen; if you need me to tell her you've an upset stomach just say the word. I can cover your first patient. I dare say Barbara and I could manage them all between us if you aren't up to it. But do let me in Patsy; I want to make sure you're alright. Was the letter something awful?'

Trixie's words broke the spell and I felt a grin starting to spill across my face, seemingly without the need of any input from my brain. I jumped up (actually jumped, like an excitable puppy) and opened the door, throwing my arms around Trixie with such uncharacteristic exuberance that she gave a little start of surprise.
'Oh Trixie you absolute brick. Thank you, but nothing bad has happened. Quite the reverse. She remembers! She remembers who we are to each other, and she wants me to visit!'
As soon as she heard that she hugged me just as fiercely in return 'Patsy that's wonderful! Oh no wonder you're glowing. Look, you must tell me all about it – absolutely every detail. But if you really are alright I'm afraid it will have to wait until after rounds. When I came up to fetch you Sister Evangelina was threatening to give you an enema to help 'clear out the blockages' if you were much longer in the bathroom'.
'Gracious, she'd do it too. Alright, I'll just put this letter somewhere safe and I'll be down. Do me a favour and tell her I was delayed by a stuck zip or a laddered stocking or something would you? Receiving an unnecessary enema would rather mar an otherwise lovely morning for me!'

Up until then the whole conversation had taken place in a barely audible whisper, but neither of us could suppress our giggles as I hurried to the bedroom to store your letter safely and Trixie returned to mollify the waiting Sister Evangelina. Even her witheringly sarcastic greeting of 'nice of you to join us Nurse Butterfingers - may I take it that you now have your undergarments well and truly under control? Good. Perhaps then we might get back to the business of nursing, do you think?' was not enough to dampen my spirits in the least.

Although I did my best to remain perfectly professional throughout my morning's work, I found little smiles struggling to come to the surface even as I examined varicose veins and boiled urine samples and never before had I answered 'lovely day!' to the calls of 'mornin Nurse!' with such sincerity as I passed people on my bicycle. I was first to arrive back at lunch time (your news had given me such energy that I'd hardly noticed the miles slipping by as I cycled from one patient to another) and as soon as the autoclave was done and my instruments sterile and put away, I went immediately to Sister Julienne's office to see about taking some leave.

Sister Julienne gave me her usual warm smile as I entered; reminding me again how different life at Nonnatus House was to working in a hospital. If I had been approaching the Matron with a request for time off I would have been feeling nervous as a sparrow, holiday entitlement or no, but Sister Julienne was so kind it was impossible to fear her and my answering smile was a genuine one. I have felt the need to keep busy over the past months and have volunteered for rather a lot of extra duties, so when I brought up the question of a week's leave (or even just a couple of days, if they might be given soon) Sister Julienne looked delighted.

'At last! The way you have been working these last few months I was almost sure you were going to run yourself into the ground. I'd have suggested you take some time off long before now, but it seemed the work was helping you with whatever inner journey you have been struggling with, so I let it rest. But now I am glad to hear that you are ready to take some time for yourself. Even those of our calling must remember that there is more to life than work Nurse Mount, and I agree that it is high time you had a holiday. We are lucky too in that it seems a slow month for the mothers-to-be of Poplar. As we are not too busy at the moment and there is no saying when that might change, it seems perfectly fitting that you should start your leave this Friday and take a whole week, if that suits you?'
I was a little concerned that that would be too soon - there was no way a letter would reach you in time to give sufficient notice, and without a telephone the only way I could think of letting you know was by telegram. But after all, you had said as soon as possible, and after a brief hesitation my own impatience to see you got the better of me and I agreed happily, thinking to send a dispatch after lunch. In the end of course, a telegram wasn't necessary.

It was pure chance that I was the one to answer it when the phone rang during lunch. In fact, Sister Winifred was supposed to be on first call, but she had been delayed on a difficult case that morning and had barely managed a forkful of lunch when it began. I had had a reasonable amount to eat and was more than half expecting that the call would be from one of my patients anyway, so I offered to take it for her. I had been working with a particularly anxious lady who had just given birth to her first child (a completely normal, full term delivery of a healthy baby girl with no complications) and in the last week alone she had called four times with some imagined ailment of her little darling. Last time she had called in a panic over an odd sort of fit her daughter seemed to be having… it turned out the little one just had a bad case of hiccups. But instead of frantic questions about 'how long was too long' for a baby to sleep at a stretch or even the nervously excited voice of a soon-to-be father whose wife was in labour, my usual telephone greeting of 'Nonnatus House, midwife speaking' was met with a heartbeat's silence and then 'Pats? Patsy Mount, is that you?'

It was so hard not to cry when I heard your gorgeous Welsh lilt, all unexpected, but the phone is in such a public place I had no choice but to hold myself together until I was alone. Looking back, I shouldn't have been surprised. Of course it would only be a matter of time, once you remembered, before you found a phone box and called Nonnatus House. Writing a letter to tell me you had regained your memories was one thing, but how had I ever expected that you would wait patiently for days on end to receive a reply? Not if there was another option (after all, you are the girl who has to her name two thwarted but still beautifully romantic attempts to run away to London and find me). And sure enough there you were only hours after the letter was delivered, sounding so close you might have been about to rest your cheek on my shoulder as we spoke.

The Nonnatus phone is not really meant to be used for personal calls (there is always the chance that a patient in distress is trying to get through while the line is tied up) so we couldn't talk for long, but in the couple of minutes of (censored) conversation we allowed ourselves I told you about the week's leave Sister Julienne had given me, and we agreed that you shouldn't meet me at the station. I couldn't say aloud why not of course (any more than I could tell you how much I missed you, or how good it was to hear your voice again), but 'there will be so many people around, why don't we meet somewhere a little quieter? Save you facing the crush' seemed enough for you to understand the rest and you gave me directions to a spot outside the village where we might be alone. After all that has happened I don't think I would be able to maintain the proper level of detachment necessary to avoid the curious stares of other people on the platform, and I don't want to walk beside you out of the station (so close, but not able to take your hand or put an arm around you) and talk of small things until we get away. So instead, when I get off the train I will take the right hand fork in the road and follow it until I reach a stile into a meadow with a stream running through it. Then I will walk beside the stream for another mile, away from the village and its people, and find a weeping willow tree with a picnic blanket spread beneath its branches. That is to be our meeting place, a safe haven where we can allow ourselves the freedom to hold each other for as long as we like (I feel as though when I get to put my arms around you again I might never be able to let go) and even cry if we need to.

I'm not sure what we will do after that. I imagine it will involve tea and small talk with your mother for starters, but beyond that the week is ours to do with as we will. We talked about going to the seaside together, perhaps spending a few nights in a hotel there (a room with twin beds naturally, all very proper), but I don't know whether we will make it that far and honestly I don't much care if we spend the days we have on this holiday sleeping under a bush, as long as it is together.

I still don't have a record player, but the sound of the stream and the wind in the leaves and our own beating hearts will suffice. No matter what else we do or say, today I will take your hand, and we will have our dance. A foxtrot maybe, or a waltz. Even a tango.

All my love,

Patsy

P.S. This time, I am not wearing lipstick.

AN: This is it - the last letter and the official end of Little Things Mean a Lot.

BUT this isn't all there is - at the request of people on tumblr, when I put this up the first time round I did write an epilogue about Patsy and Delia's meeting. If people are interested in reading it I can put it up here too, or we can just leave it here if you think it's better that way. Let me know what you'd prefer :)

If we ARE saying goodbye here then thank you all for sticking with it all the way through, especially everyone who left such lovely, supportive comments! You all made me very happy :D x